Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 260(@200wpm)___ 208(@250wpm)___ 173(@300wpm)
“That I was having a full-on meltdown in here?”
“Kind of.” She holds my gaze, unafraid to let me see her concern, but also not scared to stare me down. She has a right to be worried, her eyes tell me. I basically just went MIA on her while we were in line. “So…are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. Just need a minute. I can’t…I can’t leave here until…” My face heats up as I slowly glance down. Of all the times I’ve ever wished I could disappear, this might be the ultimate time.
“Oh,” Sutton exclaims breathlessly when her eyes glance down. “That was the problem?”
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
“Jesus. I—I see. You’re right. You couldn’t very well press up against anyone with that going on.”
“I know.” I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversation. With. My. Secretary. Who is not my girlfriend. Who barely knows me. And who actually thinks I’m a bit of an epic Grump.
“Well…what…will it go away? Can you do something about it?”
“Like what?!”
“I don’t know! Like—uh—take care of it.”
“We’re in a public bathroom,” I grind out. “And I don’t think it would actually help.”
“Who was it?” Sutton’s frowning at me now. There’s something different in her eyes. Her tone is biting, and she’s pissed off. But why, I have no idea. I kind of get it. But no, it’s not that I left her alone in the hugging line or just pointed out I have a massive boner problem. It’s something else.
“Who was what?”
“Who…who is responsible for that? Because if she’s here, you should have just grown a pair and asked her to be your real girlfriend. Then you would have solved a shit ton of problems. Asking me…this was just stupid. And it’s insulting. I don’t care if this is fake or not, it’s rancid insulting. And after my Granny baked you cookies! If you wanted to get me back for the journal, you could have just said so. You didn’t need to publicly humiliate me by rubbing my face in—”
“You think…” I trail off because no, it’s too ridiculous. She couldn’t actually be jealous. But then I slowly realize it’s exactly what she is. “You’re…are you actually jealous?”
“No!” Sutton fumes. “Of course not. I just don’t like being made into a massive joke in front of, like, two hundred people or so.”
Her nostrils flare. I want to wither. How the hell am I supposed to deal with this? And why the hell is this freaking boner from hell not deflating?
“I wasn’t trying to humiliate you. I was…I wasn’t thinking about anyone else, okay? I was thinking about you.”
“Me?” she squeaks. “Me!”
“Yes. About the thing that didn’t happen. I’m sorry. I was just standing there holding your hand, and you smelled good, and you’re beautiful, and it just—I started thinking about it. All of it. How you tasted. How you felt. Those moans you made. I. Couldn’t. Help. It.”
Sutton’s mouth drops open. My mouth drops too. I can’t believe I just admitted that. Her breathing comes in shallow gasps, and I take a series of deep breaths, trying to get oxygen to my brain. I’m really hoping the blood will start flowing there instead of my aching dick.
“Jesus, Philippe.”
“Nope. Just Philippe. Not even close to saintly, never mind godly.”
Sutton huffs. Her eyes lower back down. Back up to my face. Then drop back down again. Her cheeks are pink when she looks up again. “Well? What are we going to do?”
“Wait.”
“Wait? I could try saying something mean to you.”
“Trust me, that’s not going to work.”
“What else can we do?”
“I don’t know. Cut it off and throw the damn thing in a bucket of ice water.”
There’s a beat of silence, a horrible, awkward pause, and then Sutton throws back her head and starts laughing. I’ve never seen her laugh like this. She just laughs and laughs. She laughs so hard that she has to set a hand on her stomach, and tears form in her eyes. It’s not funny, but I can’t help it. I have to laugh too. I laugh, just like how she does—with abandon. I laugh like I can’t remember doing in years. Until my stomach aches too.
“Why did you wear such tight jeans?” She gasps between peals of laughter.
“The tightness of the pants doesn’t matter. Loose-fitting ones would have been worse. There would have been an actual tent.”
That sets her off, and she starts laughing again. God, I love the sound of it. I match her laugh for laugh. I realize how crazy we must look standing in here, snorting and crying with laugher, the door locked behind us.
Suddenly, I don’t care. It feels good. It feels good to laugh, to be alive. I haven’t actually realized that in years. Haven’t been thankful. I buried myself in just about everything there was besides actual living.